


LMGTFY

by AoifeMoran



Category: The Princess Diaries - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Canon - Movie, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, but also not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 14:39:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18780307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AoifeMoran/pseuds/AoifeMoran
Summary: (Let Me Google That For You)In which everything is the same except it's 2019, and the Princess of Genovia is a Gen Z teenager. Look out, world!





	LMGTFY

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't change all that much, just added a hell of a lot more internet. I feel like GenZ!Mia's take on the whole princess situation would be... Kinda different, kinda the same, kinda hilarious.
> 
> Just some self indulgent crack.

“Mia, your grandmother called today,” mom tells me, almost an afterthought as she slides two fingers towards each other and zooms out on the latest piece of art she’s working on on her tablet.

“What?” Unless they figured out how to like, 3D print the dead back to life, that makes no sense. I mean, her parents died years ago, after all.

“Your grandmother,” she says patiently. “Your father’s mother. From Genovia? Her name’s Clarisse.”

Oh. “Why? It’s not like she’s ever spoken to me before, or to you ever since she made you two get divorced."

The problem with living in the 21st century is, you have everything at your fingertips. A lot of people wouldn’t think that’s a bad thing, but it sure makes keeping secrets difficult. I never knew where my dad was from, before my mom just casually mentioned the country just now, so obviously I did what any self-respecting teen would do. I Googled it. Turns out that's a 'G-E 'and not a 'J-A' at the beginning, oops. Thank God for autocorrect.

“Oh, that must be way awkward for her,” I say after a few minutes skimming the Wikipedia article on Genovia: European micronation on the Cote d’Azur, famous for their pear exports and historical tendency towards progressive politics, and consistently bringing home the gold at international archery competitions. “Their queen’s name is Clarisse, that’s like being named Elizabeth in England I bet…”

Mom drops her tablet pen, swears as she hears it start rolling somewhere on the floor, and gets down on her knees to find it. “Clumsy of me,” she says awkwardly, which, yeah, but also I know my mom, and she’s never clumsy like that with tablet pens, not since the Wacom Stylus Debacle of 2016.

I look at her, hoping I’m managing to convey the exact flavor of “what the fuck” I’m feeling at the moment. She makes this super awkward face again, which, what even? “What gives, mom?”

“Well, Mia, about your grandmother,” mom starts, but then my phone buzzes - a text from Lilly - and somehow I manage to almost drop my phone, catch it before the screen shatters into a billion tiny pieces and press the Wikipedia link to the article on ‘Her Majesty Queen Clarisse’ before I get my balance back, mom fussing over me the entire time.

I’m just about to tap on the Messenger icon when I see the name ‘Philippe’ in the text of the article and my eyes narrow. There’s coincidence, and then there’s… this wikipedia article… about the queen of some tiny country in Europe. Who has the same name as my alleged grandmother. And a son who had the same name as my dad. And passed away on the same day two months ago.

I guess mom can see it on my face. Lilly would probably bring up her parents being psychologists and start talking about how disbelief is the first stage of grief on the way to acceptance. I would probably tell her to shut up.   
Anyway mom puts down her tablet and gives me this weird smile and says, “At first the plan was Philippe would get married again to a proper royal, have kids who grew up knowing they were heirs to the throne. But then he got sick and that wasn’t an option anymore, so we said, OK, we’ll tell Mia when she’s 18, let her have a normal childhood until then. But… Well, circumstances have changed, obviously.”

I want to hate her, a little. My dad, too, but he's dead, so there's not much point to that. But that’s my gut reaction. But then I think about like, Britney Spears, growing up in the spotlight, and how people still jokingly say things like “leave Britney alone” and try to imagine it being me. _‘Leave Mia alone!’_ And yeah, I get it. Like, it sucks they didn’t tell me, but I’ve seen little kids. They can’t keep secrets for shit. Hell, I can’t keep secrets that much better either. It stings a little that they didn’t trust me to know who I was earlier, but having Seen Some Shit on the internet, I get it.

“So like, what’s Her Majesty My Grandma want from me?” Somehow, making the connection that 'grandma = queen' makes sense, but my brain hasn’t really taken the next logical step.

“Well,” mom sucks in an awkward breath and then blurts the rest of her words like there’s no tomorrow, “with your father’s passing you are the heir now,” which, yeah, should have realized that, but y’know. Not every day you find out you’re, what, crown princess I guess?

“Oh. Well shit.” I don’t know much about princess-ing. Scratch that. I don’t know anything about princess-ing. I somehow doubt there’s a wiki-how guide for this, or at least one that’s any good. I wonder what images they would trace over for that page, even. I'll look it up later. Seems like it could be useful learning material.

Maybe mom’s psychic. Or maybe it’s kind of an obvious concern. “Your grandmother isn’t just going to put you on the throne unprepared,” she says, aiming for reassuring, I guess.

“I mean. There isn’t really any way to like. Get job experience at princess-ing.” Can’t exactly get an unpaid internship that prepares you for ruling an entire country, I mean.

“Well no,” mom agrees.

“Also like, I’m not even allowed to drive. I’m pretty sure you can’t rule a country if you can’t drive.”

“The driving age in Genovia is 14,” mom says, which, a, how does she know that, she’s American, and b, thanks, unhelpful. “What? Your father told me on a date once, this whole story about visiting a military exercise and accidentally driving away in a tank.” OK, that sounds pretty cool and also like the exact sort of story that would lead to remembering that information so I can’t really say anything.

I’m not sure how we’ve both instantly agreed that I have no choice but to take up the role of crown princess and heir apparent. Honestly, I’m terrified at the thought. That’s not me. My name’s Mia Thermopolis, I work part time at a rock climbing gym and throw up at the concept of public speaking. I run a tumblr blog full of pop culture memes and like, the occasional feminist rant I reblog from Lilly, which is about as close as I come to having opinions on politics. My hobbies include forgetting to water my plants and not being noticed by anyone ever. I’m not exactly princess material.  
“Yer a princess, Mia,” I whisper to myself in my best Hagrid voice, sounding almost hysterical.  
Honestly, fuck it. If Harry Potter could spend eleven years in a cupboard and then find out he was like, destined to be the Chosen One, then it’s not like I could do a worse job as princess.

Mom hasn’t said anything this entire time, but she’s giving me this like, hopeful and encouraging look, probably watching me go through an entire face journey and trying not to laugh. “Genovia calls for aid,” she jokes.

I roll my eyes, but I’m not just going to leave her hanging like that. “And Mia will answer,” I say, and then we burst out giggling and hug it out.  
“Right. OK. So Queen Grandma. Does she want me to like, meet her somewhere sometime or something? Should I call her?” Please no. “Does she text?” I’m like, pretty sure I read something somewhere about like, Prince Harry DMing Meghan on Twitter but Queen Grandma is like, an old person, who knows what she knows about technology.

Mom passes me this super fancy business card made of thick cardstock, one side emblazoned with a logo, no, wait, it's called a crest I think? that I now recognize from the Wikipedia page as the Queen’s personal coat of arms, and another with a phone number printed in red-gold numbers. “I think she would prefer if you called?”

Ugh. Old people. It figures.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow writing in first person is bizarre, thanks, I hate this


End file.
